


let me down slowly

by eurythmix



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: 1960s, Canon Divergence, Extended Scene, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-25
Updated: 2019-06-25
Packaged: 2020-05-19 08:37:57
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,197
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19353388
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/eurythmix/pseuds/eurythmix
Summary: Aziraphale takes that lift.





	let me down slowly

**Author's Note:**

> [for anon](https://honeyreynolds.tumblr.com/post/185603669053/for-the-drabble-list-will-you-do-82-for-ac)

“Why now?”

He took a left on Old Compton towards Trafalgar and Aziraphale didn’t reply. The steering wheel groaned in protest under Crowley’s tightening grip.

“You’ve had plenty of chances,” he continued, staring resolutely at the road. It was only a few minutes past midnight and this city never really slept, but the traffic was miraculously sparse for a Saturday night. Probably Aziraphale’s doing, judging by how close he sat to the door. “Heavens, why didn’t you swoop in before I gave those kids that money? I’m down £300 because of your tardiness, y’know.” He paused, head tilted to the side. “Is that a sin? It should be a sin. _Thou shalt not be tardy_. Lust barely even counts as a real sin anymore, at least not in the way it used to be; take your lot for a jaunt up any Soho walk-up and -”

“My dear,” Aziraphale interrupted, voice strained, “please just - shut up for a moment.”

The cab dropped into a cold, heavy silence. As Crowley swung around Pall Mall an onslaught of traffic emerged, trapping him in the treacle-thick flow of the A4. Contrary to popular belief Down Below, Crowley wasn’t responsible for Trafalgar Square’s abysmal design; in fact, much of London’s problems emerged from the fact that people always thought they were smarter than those who had come before them. Having seen generations of Londoners try and fail to make sense of their own city, Crowley had it on good authority that they most definitely _weren’t_.

He’s well aware that Aziraphale had a hand in instituting the Royal Vauxhall Tavern, though. That’s where they would be heading, if the idiot in the Ford Cortina ahead of them knew how to merge properly.

“Fuck it,” Crowley snarled, and waved a hand at the offending car. It disappeared from the road and, like a clogged artery suddenly decongested, the traffic began to trickle through again. 

Aziraphale made a soft disappointed sound and Crowley scoffed. “He’s back on the Strand, don’t look at me like that.”

“I’m not looking at you like anything,” Aziraphale sniffed, crossing his arms. “I’m just saying, there are far more elegant solutions to your problems than just miracling them away.”

“Oh, that’s rich,” Crowley muttered, crossing over to St James’. “Tell me, what happened to that _delightful_ gentleman inquiring about your shop last week? I suppose he decided on a spontaneously trip to Majorca, hmm?”

“Crowley -”

“Spain is lovely this time of year,” he said loudly. He was pushing the speed limit; not that anyone would ever remember ‘26 Bentley zipping through the park in the middle of the night. Humans had this astonishing capacity to ignore the most obvious things, Crowley noticed. They were only beat in terms of obstinance by angels, specifically the stubborn Principality in his passenger’s seat. “I wonder how his wife feels about this little trip?”

“If you _must_ know,” Aziraphale said shortly, “ _that_ particular gentleman was looking to turn the shop into a sort of Molly house, so, no, Crowley, there was no wife. And besides,” he added, “I simply implied that there was better real estate on the South side. Maybe in Covent Garden, if he were so inclined.”

Crowley rolled his eyes. “First of all, they’re not called Molly houses anymore. I was asleep for a hundred years and even I know that. Secondly, you’re avoiding the question.”

“What question?” Aziraphale asked innocently.

Crowley hit the brakes hard, throwing Aziraphale towards the dash. _Serves him right for not wearing a seatbelt_ , Crowley thought, willfully ignoring the fact that his car didn’t have any seat belts to speak of. The taxi behind them honked and the driver threw a two fingered salute at Crowley as he sped past, but he was too distracted to be pleased over a little bit of road rage. “Don’t play dumb, angel,” he hissed, “You know exactly what you’re doing.”

Aziraphale’s cheeks turned a furious shade of pink. “Yes, I do, and I’m really hoping I won’t regret it.” He reached across and poked Crowley square in the chest. “The question is, do you know what you’re doing?”

“What _I’m_ doing?” Crowley squawked, pressing back against Aziraphale’s finger. “What I’m doing is arguing with a bloody brick wall, that’s what I’m doing! If you just tell me why you changed your mind -”

“Why is that even important? I gave you what you wanted -”

“Oh, out of the goodness of your heart? To fill your virtue quota for the month? What is it, Aziraphale, really?” Without realising, Crowley’s face had gotten very close to Aziraphale's, so close that his next words were practically spoken onto his lips. “Is this _pity_?”

Aziraphale inhaled, short and shallow. “Of course not,” he whispered, voice cracked down the middle like his throat had been cleaved with his own sword. “I worry for you, Crowley.”

Crowley reared back. “You don’t trust me.” He shook his head, a soft, disappointed laugh bubbling to his mouth. “You think I’m going to off myself when the going gets rough. That I’m - what, going to leave you here alone when Armageddon arrives?” He pulled off his glasses and ran a hand over his face. “Six thousand years and you still don’t get it.”

Somewhere between Eden and Rome, Crowley had come to the distressing conclusion that he possessed some kind of fondness for Aziraphale, and that it was a fondness that would never be reciprocated. At least, not in the way he wanted it to be. Angels loved _love_ , but it was a terribly conditional thing. The bigger picture and all that jazz. Selfless, sensible, soulless.

That didn’t stop Crowley from glutting himself with hope. He had this horrible faith buried somewhere deep in his chest that thought, just maybe, enough time away from the Host would give Aziraphale a little perspective. Less pious compassion, at least. Maybe it was too much to ask, too soon; maybe this was what She had meant when She said that his questions would hurt him more than they hurt Her. 

Aziraphale sighed, the fight leaking from his body. His hand crept across the gear lever and came to rest on Crowley’s knee, a gentle pressure that pulled them both into the present. “I’m sorry,” he murmured, barely audible. “I trust you. More than anything.” He paused, his face crumbling into something frighteningly sincere. “Just - don’t go unscrewing the cap. Please. For my sake.”

The hope in Crowley’s chest flared bright and beautiful, so potent he could barely breathe past the awful pain lodged in his throat. He opened his mouth, every word he’d never spoken rushing to the surface, but Aziraphale had opened the door. He shot Crowley one last glance, something full of indescribable fear and longing, before swiftly exiting the Bentley into the cool November night.

Crowley watched him cut through the park, his white coat catching the headlights until he too was folded into the shadows. A frog chirruped nearby; a group of men were approaching from the west, drunk; the distant whine of an ambulance echoed across the borough. Crowley took a deep breath, grit his teeth, and started the engine. He had a caper to call off.

**Author's Note:**

> [tumblr](https://honeyreynolds.tumblr.com)


End file.
